


We Bed in a Bucket of Butcher's Knives

by dickovny



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Caning, Cannibalism, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickovny/pseuds/dickovny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal craves pain and Bedelia delights in delivering it. Therapy can take many forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Bed in a Bucket of Butcher's Knives

**0.**

She told him that she didn't want to talk about the attack yet he brought it up anyway. He loves to push her, this way and that, watching the way she shifts under the light, looking for cracks and weak spots. Unlike most, her moves are erratic, her responses thoroughly unpredictable, and her weak points almost non-existent, which delights him. She stands in front of the window, the light silhouetting her frame in the most pleasing way. If he were to capture her image forever it would be as this.

"Hannibal, you need to leave. Our hour is finished,"  she says, without turning to him, heated and low. It is a command, not a plea, but still he must push one more time. _It is part of what makes him a madman_ , he muses.

"Do I seem dangerous to you, Miss Du Maurier?"

Her whole body stiffens and he can hear her sharp inhale, the sound of a fissure opening in her composure. He has found the weak point, and he intends to wrench it open. He places his next blow artfully and waits for her to break.

"Do you fear that I will attack you as well?"

The question has barely left his lips when Bedelia whips around in a swift motion, and her hand forcefully connects with his smile. She slaps him with all that she has, knocking him off balance, and the crack reverberates in the silent room. Pain blossoms across the entire side of Hannibal's face and he can taste the sharp metallic tang of blood. Bedelia's cheeks are flushed crimson, her chest rising and falling with absolute fury, her eyes boring into his skull. He expects tears, regret, a look of guilt, but her lips are parted and smirking. Power is a drug, a transformative one, and the effect it has on Bedelia is intoxicating. He is hard the entire drive home.

The shower is turned to full blast, the water so hot it sears him in an attempt to mimic the pain of her hand. His skin sings and he replays the events of their session, turning them over in his mind. He leans on the shower wall and lingers in the image of her smirk, tugging at his cock so hard that it hurts.

He was wrong. If he were to capture her image forever it would be as _this_.

**1.**

Trepidation follows him to her door for their next scheduled session. It takes several moments of baited breath before she appears to undo the lock. He cannot read what passes behind her eyes when she sees him. Bedelia opens her mouth as if to speak and thinks better of it. He takes the opportunity to try and pry his way in.

"Please. I wish to discuss my treatment. From a patient to his doctor," he says, and to his relief she relaxes slightly, "Surely you know how dangerous abandoning a patient must be, from a clinical standpoint. May I come in?"

She pauses, nods, and opens the door. He passes her and the proximity allows him to catch a whiff of her perfume, shampoo, and fabric softener - but beneath these scents he catches the faintest touch of her arousal, and he holds his breath, letting it linger within his throat, humming pleasantly.

Therapy can be beneficial for not only patient but also practitioner. He wonders how long she's felt this way and revels in the fact that he does not know.

She stops before entering the living room, taking a moment to gather herself before returning to the scene of their previous encounter, and watches him.

Hannibal removes his jacket and places it gingerly on the back of a chair, then takes off his shoes. He does this slowly, gravely, as if practicing some sort of ritual - all the while she watches. Carefully, with the grace of a dancer, he drops to the carpet on his knees. Oddly vulnerable, with his bare feet and rolled-up shirt-sleeves exposing muscular forearms, settling on his heels in a gesture of supplication, he looks up at her and into her eyes. His glance darts to her hands, cock twitching at the thought of the damage they can do.

"What do you need from me, Hannibal?" Bedelia asks, her breath uneven and her exposed collarbone lightly flushed pink. The man's hair hangs in his eyes and his smile is crooked and he looks positively feral and she wants so desperately to conquer him.  
  
"I need you to hit me again," he says, without looking away, and something within her _burns_. He is playing with fire and wants to be seared. She circles him like a shark smelling blood.  
  
"If we cross this threshold there is no going back," she warns him, knowing full well he doesn't need it, that Hannibal Lecter is not a man of regrets and last minute decisions. The fact that he has _chosen_ this, surrendered to her, exhilarates her and her voice drips with predation.  
  
" _Please_."

She does not hesitate and the speed of her strike catches him off guard, her hand connecting with his face _hard_. He gathers himself, hums serenely, and nods, signaling his acceptance and willingness for more. She continues to circle him, and she strikes again, harder this time, and he groans. Pausing, she waits for his signal, and when he nods again she slaps him even harder, reopening the split in his lip.  
  
They are breathing raggedly and the air around them crackles. Every time her hand hits his face she feels a stirring in her abdomen, the rush of the violence running through her like wildfire. His ability to withstand pain and maintain his shield of control is almost unsettling, she is hitting him with everything she has and he still straightens up, taking it every single time. Sweat drips down his brow and there is blood drooling down his chin. She has never seen him more alive.  
  
The next strike is particularly forceful and he _moans_ , falling forward onto his hands, panting. Her hand stings like lightning and her arm aches deliciously. Her arousal frightens her and for a moment she almost apologizes, before she notices the outline of his cock against his trousers and the flush of scarlet up his neck. She clears her throat and he looks up at her, all sharp teeth and jagged edges. An eternity passes between them unspoken.  
  
"Our hour is up - there is a bathroom down the hall. I recommend you clean yourself before you leave," she snaps, "I won't be here when you get back. Please see yourself out." His eyes follow her as she leaves the room, and he swears he can smell her cunt.  
  


**1.5**

Daylight plays against her skin through the open window. The empty house is completely still.  
  
The strangeness of being nude on her living room floor, where she has met with him so many times, is intoxicating, and she revels in the rough burn of the carpet against her skin.  
  
She rocks against her palm, rolling her hips and languidly stretching, writhing and pressing her face against the carpet There is a rust-colored stain where his bloodied face made contact with the floor and if she breathes deeply enough she can still smell him. Closing her eyes she views the scene with perfect clarity, and her lips part in an unholy moan.  
  
From a medical standpoint, masochism is not an unusual human impulse. Pain releases endorphins, and when managed correctly it can manifest itself as a magnification of sexual pleasure. This she understands.  
  
The psychological enjoyment of the _infliction_ of pain is a different animal entirely and she blissfully questions her sanity.  
  
She slips two spit-slicked fingers inside of herself, arching her hips to the ceiling, and when she pictures his swollen, bleeding lips, hungrily sucking between her legs, she comes.  
  


**2.**

A week has passed since their last session, and the bruising on his face has since subsided, but not disappeared completely. It was easy enough to explain away, fabricating a story about a violent patient - a violent doctor near enough to the truth.  
  
When he arrived, she did not speak, instead motioning for him to enter the living room, where he now stands at full attention. She exuded confidence, and it thrilled him.  
  
She moves to close the curtains, and her first words to him are a command, distancing him from their normal repartee - a commendable and effective strategy.  
  
"Undress. _Now_ ," she says curtly, without turning to face him.  
  
He removes first his shoes, then his jacket, just as before, placing both on the chair before moving to his shirt. When she finally turns to face him the tension in the room is a dense fog and he finds he can barely breathe.  
  
"You will refer to me for the duration of our session only as Miss Du Maurier. If you refer to me by any other title, I will end the session. Do you understand?"  
  
Her tongue wields the syllables like knives.  
  
He nods while carefully folding the shirt and placing it on the table. Her comfort in this role is something he did not foresee and his pleasure at her ability to surprise him is immense.  
  
"In the future, if I ask a question I _demand_ a verbal response," she bites and his stomach rolls. "If I do not get one, I will end the session. If something is too much you may say 'red' or 'mercy' and I will stop the action immediately. If you are prevented for whatever reason from making a worded response you may use three short grunts and they will be interpreted similarly. I doubt that will occur. I have faith in your ability to withstand pain. Have I made myself clear thus far?"  
  
Hannibal stands before her, completely nude. He has never been one for modesty about the physical form and he notices the dilation of her pupils as she trails them down his body.  He locks eyes with her and smiles challengingly.  
  
"Yes, Miss Du Maurier. Abundantly so," he says, dripping with sarcasm, testing his boundaries, pushing to see if she will push back.  
  
Lightning-quick she crosses behind him, abruptly grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking his head back, exposing his throat and turning his face to the ceiling. Hannibal's guard is down and he moans involuntarily. Even in heels, she is still several inches shorter than he is, and she must strain to reach his ear with her mouth.  
  
"If you test me, I will end the session, and I will never lay hands on you again in your life" she snarls.  
  
She releases him and shoves his head forward, before her hand cracks against the side of his face. The combination of movements surprises him and he takes the full force of the slap without the privilege of being able to brace himself, stumbling. The burn is comforting and instantly overwhelmingly arousing.  
  
"I'm sorry, Miss Du Maurier."  
  
"Good. I am pleased that you see your position so clearly," she says, turning and walking to her desk. Slowly, she opens the drawer, hands trembling in anticipation. The cane is roughly two and a half feet long, and she gently caresses the length of the rattan shaft. It cracks when it meets her palm and he hardens in response. "Hold out your hands, palms up. If you flinch, this ends."  
  
The cane is light, flexible, and giving, and she begins to tap his palms rapidly but lightly. Her eyes never leave his and her lips part as the strokes increase in force. It's sensual, a rhythm developing, and she's fucking him, and he's breathing hard and silently begging for more, his hands a blur of intoxicating pain. He winces at a particularly hard stroke and she smiles - his hands are a delicious mass of small red welts.  
  
"An effective demonstration," he chokes.  
  
"Hands behind your head," Bedelia commands, and he obeys much faster than he would like.  
  
She stands behind him and touches the cane to the the back of his thighs, dragging it across his flesh, the tip followed by a sea of goosebumps.  
  
"I am going to strike you until you say 'mercy' or until I draw blood, which ever comes first. You may not move from this spot or attempt to block my strikes in anyway. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, Miss Du Maurier."  
  
The first strike is hard, much harder than he anticipated, and Hannibal bites his tongue to prevent from crying out. The second strike is harder than the last and it takes enormous will to root himself to the spot. The third burns like fire through his entire body and he _yells_.  
  
"Wonderful," she purrs, massaging each syllable with her lips, "Please, be as vocal as you feel necessary."  
  
By the fifth and sixth strike, he is roaring, muscles trembling as he forces himself to remain still, accepting the cane. His cock is throbbing and he can't stop shaking - never in his _life_ has pain felt any thing like this - and by the tenth strike he's sure that the voice in the room is not his own, for it no longer sounds human. The twelfth comes down hard and he feels the flesh tear and somewhere that voice shouts _mercy_ and his whole body is shaking, hands still locked behind his head with his fingers laced together and there's sweat dripping down his face and he's breathing through locked teeth.  
  
The room flickers as she presses her body firmly into his back, the contact of her weight against the open wound screaming through his being, instinctively driving him forward, into the hand that's grabbing his cock. Hannibal can feel her chest rising and falling, panting from the exertion of lashing him, and their combined sweat soaks her shirt. She pulls at him with a cruel speed and intensity and when her nails dig into the sensitive flesh of his erection he screams.  
  
"Come for me, Hannibal, now or this ends." she commands, and he rocks his hips into her hand.  
  
"Please - I - I need -" he breathes frantically. It's all too much at once and he can't focus, he feels like he's drowning, and in a moment of pure understanding she places her other hand around his throat and squeezes viciously.  
  
Time stops and then he is falling.  
  
He comes on his stomach and he's shaking and he can't _breathe_ and his entire body burns. Her hand finds his and she leads him to the bathroom, silently turning on the shower and leaving him there. Blood swirls down the drain and he is reminded of the shower he took after their last session.  
  
When he dries, his clothes are folded on the counter. A note sits on top, in her familiar looping hand, that reads: "Please see yourself out. Return next week as scheduled."  
  


**2.14**  
  
Drawn by the sound of rustling bed sheets and movement, Hannibal stops in the hallway. He turns away from the direction of the foyer and instead heads deeper into the house. There is a door half open, and silently he obscures himself behind it, peering inside.  
  
Bedelia lies on the large white bed completely defiled, a sharp contrast to the immaculate bedroom. Her skirt is hiked around her waist, blonde hair splayed on the pillow, a leg hanging from the bed with a black shoe haphazardly dangling towards the floor. Her blouse is open, exposing her bra and the sharp angles of her collarbones. She's fellating the cane, eyes closed, moaning around it, as she forcefully shoves several fingers inside her cunt. Lipstick is smeared around her mouth and her hair is sticky with sweat.  
  
Hannibal would die to see her come like this, arching her back shamelessly into her own touch, but the obscenity of doing so without her consent would ruin the experience; wordlessly, he turns again out into the hall.  
  
Before he closes the front door he swears he can hear her _scream_.  
 

**2.45**  
  
Their lips meet hungrily and without gentleness. Bare limbs tangle beneath sheets soaked with sweat, his leg pushing between hers as she pulls herself on top of him, straddling him. They are a sight to behold, frantic and snarling, and as her lips part for his tongue she obscenely grinds herself downward onto his thigh, streaking him with her wetness.  
  
The flesh of his tongue is tender against her teeth, and thoughtlessly she bites down. Warm, viscous coppery liquid fills her mouth and she drinks greedily, sucking and pulling more of his tongue into her throat. She writhes like a snake, and he moans without reserve as she continues to eat the muscle. When she lets go he falls back against the pillow and smiles, crimson bubbling between his lips as he wordlessly tries to speak.  
  
The realization that she has _devoured_ _his tongue_ lights her being aflame and she laughs viciously, a clear bright peal in the stillness of the night.  
  
Consciousness hits her abruptly and she sits bolt upright in her bed, clawing at the wet sheets wrapped around her legs. She is clothed and alone and the nausea is overwhelming. She stumbles bambi-legged to the bathroom and the harshness of the light turns her stomach. Her fingers clutch the marble of the counter as she turns on the sink.  
  
The cold water is a welcome sensation and she wishes she could cry.  
  
More than that she wishes she could quell the heat between her thighs.  
  


**2.60**  
  
Days blend into weeks into months.  
  
Sessions pass in a blur of markings and bruises, tiny releases of frustrations pent up on both ends, nothing close to the relief she felt after the caning, and she just can't quite reach the state she desires.  
  
Her mind is breaking and she can't remember the last time she slept without his subconscious visitation. She's losing weight and her face is hollow, the signs of sleep deprivation easy to read.  
  
He asks about her once.  
  
She tells him it's work-related and he suggests that she shouldn't take such things to bed.  
  
She stifles a scream.  
  
 _I do believe I'm going mad_ , she thinks, and for a moment considers slitting his throat.  
  


 

 **2.85**  
  
Bedelia is drowning.  
  
The waters recede on a cold day in fall when, during a particularly heated discussion, he motions towards her throat. Instinctively, she grabs the letter opener from her desk and plunges it into his thigh.  
  
He roars in surprise and it's as if the world is clear again.  
  
The murkiness dissipates and the path she must take lies before her in startling clarity. He hisses, pulling the opener from its new home in his thigh, before experimentally placing the length of the red wet blade in his mouth.  
  
"Oh, _Hannibal_."  
  


**3.**  
  
Therapy can take many forms. A spectrum of patients requires a spectrum of treatments, and Bedelia's are wonderfully apt.  
  
He has awaited this session with painful anticipation since the moment he felt her blade puncture his skin. His hands grip the arms of the chair and she kneels between his naked thighs. She extends the knife before his mouth and his head swims with excitement.  
  
"Lick the blade," she growls, and he complies, locking his eyes with hers, seductively and gingerly running his tongue the length of the cold metal, a mimicry of his actions the week before. It was effective then and just as effective now - she looks positively frenzied.  
  
She produces a small, black ball-gag, bringing the rubber to her lips and caressing it soundlessly. He opens his mouth and she slips it behind his teeth, the unfamiliar taste of her mouth coating his teeth and tongue. He relishes the sensation and catalogs it for later use.  
  
In moments, her mask of control is in place and her face unreadable.  
  
"Because of the gag, we will not be using a safe-word, but you still have your gestures. Demonstrate for me."  
  
Hannibal raps his knuckles against the arm of the chair three times.  
  
"If you try to block me or remove your arms from the arms of the chair, I will end the session." The point of the knife gently prods at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh and he hisses.  
  
In response, she drags the knife down several inches, leaving a long, white scratch. Hannibal groans and his cock begins to harden as he watches the stripe raise and flush pink. Her eyes meet his expectantly, and he raps his knuckles against the arm of the chair once, their signal for her to continue.  
  
She exhales unevenly, raises the knife to the top of his thigh again, presses the blade down harder and pulls. It isn't more than a deep scratch, but it's enough to draw blood and the sight of it welling on the white of his skin is enough to make him moan aloud.  When she pauses he insistently raps his knuckles against the chair.  
  
Again she returns the knife to the top of his thigh, breaching his skin with the point and she pulls achingly slowly downward. Blood quickly springs to the surface and he yells behind the gag, drooling onto his chin. The knife starts again, an inch from the wound, drawing another the same length, and again, and again, until there are four angry red stripes, lining his thigh with blood. He's frantically shouting and his chin and mouth shine with spit, his hands tightly clutching the arms of the chair.  
  
He screams like an animal when she drops her tongue to the first cut, dragging it the full length, coating her lips in his blood. The soft warm pressure on the open wound aches down to the bone. His vision dims as she repeats the process on the remaining three cuts, his head a swirling mass of pain. With the steadiest composure, she pulls his cock between her blood-sticky lips and slides him in deep, touching the back of her throat and gagging softly. Incoherently yelling against the spit-soaked gag, he shakes his head, knuckles white, Bedelia swirling his head with her tongue, sweat and tears streaming down his face. He sees stars when her teeth pinch the swollen flesh.  
  
Quickly and violently she impales her mouth on his cock, over and over again, scraping her molars against the sides. He sobs madly, and blood sticks to her cheeks where they brush against his thigh. It covers her hands and smears on his cock, her icy eyes looking up at him.  
  
 _God_ , has she always been such a monster?  
  
He comes into her throat with a scream like a man possessed.  
  


**4.**  
  
The table is set for dinner and anticipation coils in her belly like a snake. They are meeting as colleagues, and despite their past encounters, sharing a meal is a level of intimacy they have not previously achieved. The threshold of the dining room is a portal to a new era, a new Bedelia, and she knows she will not return unchanged.  
  
The smell of the meat is intoxicating, and his jagged teeth flash a smile when she comments on the scent.  
  
 _Your veal is getting cold_.  
  
He is pushing again, but gently this time. He is Lucifer incarnate, and she is being led to the gates of hell.  
  
A moment of trepidation - she fears indulging herself and what she may find therein, but the fear passes and her lips close sensually around the meat. He watches rapturously as she chews; the knowledge that he has done this for her, prepared his victim's flesh and offered it in supplication, unravels her. She moans through closed lips and he shifts in his seat.  
  
Bedelia comments on the pattern of his violent patients, and it is an intentional reference to their own dangerous game. The tension in the room is palpable and the taste of the girl lingers on her tongue.  
  
 _Have your beliefs about me begun to unravel?_  
  
It is a challenge, and in the space of her pause he pushes once more.  
  
 _Have your beliefs about yourself?_  
  
Something within her shatters.  
  
Moments later, when she stands before him, undressed except her heels, clothes pooled around her feet like a shed skin, her eyes are wild and mean, and he swears he can see the a monster behind them. Her nipples stand hard in the cold air of the dining room and it's all he can do not to close his lips around one and tug.  
  
Hannibal pushes back his chair and stands, dropping his jacket to the floor. Fear that his hands will blister when they touch her blazing skin grips him and they hover in the air inches away from her waist. Her small hands find his and place them firmly onto her bones and she leans into him, the texture of his clothing maddening on her bare flesh.  
  
Her tongue teases the shell of his ear as she whispers dangerously low.  
  
"Once I dreamed I devoured your tongue."  
  
He growls and his fingers tangle within her hair, crashing his mouth into hers, and their teeth click together painfully. His lip is sucked between her teeth and, snarling, she bites down. Their kiss is born of violence and when he pulls away their mouths are wet, swollen, and red. He shoves his plate backward and his wine glass careens into the table top, shattering and spilling a pool of deepest purple. He wipes the debris away with his arm, ruining his sleeve, and he lifts her onto the table.  
  
Later, the heels of her shoes dig into his back, legs draped over his shoulders, and her nails gouge into the wood of the table as he ravishes her with his tongue. His fingers dig into her hips so hard they bruise her and she swears he is eating her whole, his mouth the only thing she feels. Her face tilts to the ceiling in a wordless scream when he bites down and she comes.  
  
The sauce from the meat is thick on her fingers and she drags them across her lips, and when he seizes her in a kiss the taste of herself and the flesh of the girl mingle.  
  
She wonders if this is what Hell tastes like.  
  
And she decides, without remorse, that she likes it.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please research responsible BDSM practices before engaging in any form of play. The bloodplay scene depicted here is definitely super-unsafe as nothing is sterilized and the inner thigh is /loaded/ with some major arteries and veins. If you decide to use a cane please buy one meant for sexual play as others can lead to injury.


End file.
